


Lieliah of the Valley

by fewlmewn



Series: Original Stories [10]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Aasimar, Angels, Archery, Firbolgs, Goblins, Quests
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-12-27 05:08:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21113165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fewlmewn/pseuds/fewlmewn
Summary: Flandre has gotten wind that there's supposed to be a legendary archer, somewhere in the Jade Plains. He decides to look for this secretive figure, hoping to learn more about the craft.





	Lieliah of the Valley

Passing mercenaries and road-weary merchants from out of the region are the only sods who dare stop by The Green Cup, the lone and infamous pub of Anwertyn Edge. Once The Scuffed Cup, a nasty case of, well, poisoning, gave the establishment its more ‘colorful’ name.

Raucous laughter and what seems to be a burping competition fill the alcove at the end of the long taproom. Rosdana climbs the stairs from the basement, a disheveled, young elven lad in tow. She cleans a cheek with the back of her hand, fixes her skirt, and hits the boy’s shoulder, a look halfway between playful and murderous on her snotty face. “Pay up,” says her extended hand, flexing in mid-air, waiting to be filled. Begrudgingly, his bright, starry-eyed gaze dimming at the reminder of the business transaction just occurred in the repurposed basement of The Cup, the lad fishes two hard-earned silver coins from a pocket.

“Have fun in the trenches, dear. Think of me when you need… a hand.” She calls after him gaudily, a vulgar gesture for all to see chasing after him as he exists the pub, red as a beet.

A battle-worn half-orc with thick, greying mutton chops sits at the end of the bar, and can’t help but choke out a laugh at the familiar sight.

“Another one skinned by Ros. He’ll probably die before he can forget the embarrassment. Oh well, he’s not the first to resort to whores and he won’t be the last. Shame Gratitude isn’t in town, she would’ve been kinder with the boy. And she wouldn’t have asked for two silvers. Poor lad won’t even have coins to be buried with.” the man sighs, downs the entire mug of ale in two, full-throated gulps and sets it down with a thud before turning to his drinking companion. A willowy thing, maybe a third his weight but just as tall, with trimmed whiskers and neatly braided hair halfway down the back, who’s nursing a cup of dark liquid.

“Anyway, you’re mad. You can’t go there. You don’t even fucking know where she’s supposed to be.”

“In the Jade Plains.”

“Well, yes, but they’re massive. It’ll take you years. You’ll get lost.”

“No, I won’t. I’m good.”

“In the woods, sure. In the fields? I doubt it. Fuck, Flan, what if there’s no archer and it’s just- I don’t know, what if it’s a monster that lures assholes like you and eats them? Why hasn’t anyone been back? They all get lost or eaten, is why!”

“I’ll find my way.”

“Fine, do whatever the fuck you want, but don’t expect me and the boys to come looking for you. I’ve already told you. If you wanna look for an archer in the middle of nowhere, who - if she even exists - can teach you to shoot better, you’re damn well welcome to fuck off and go find her. Maybe she’ll teach you some sense.”

“That’s not her job.”

“Well, I know! Then maybe you’ll learn how the world works while you’re dying in a field with not even a rabbit or duck to shoot to feed yourself!”   
“That won’t happen. I have a good feeling about this.”

“Oh, now you do, but wait until you’re out there. I’ve backed you up so far, but I won’t watch you waste your life after a  _ legend _ .” the half-orc spits out angrily the last part, the strength of whatever liquor the bartender just placed under his nose likely the cause for his watering eyes.

“Alright. Then don’t turn around. I’m leaving. I’ll come find you once it’s done.”

“When what’s done? Flandre you asshole!” the man calls out after the now former companion, taking care not to follow him with his gaze as the other gets up, shoulders his bow and quiver, and starts for the exit.

  
  


The chill of the dales bites and licks at Flandre’s feet, like an hungering vulture, stalking its prey and waiting for the flesh to tire, for the sweet taste of death to saturate the meat on one’s bones. Three days of decent weather are too much to ask for, and finally rain just has to fall from those bulging clouds that had been following since he first left town. Last night had been an ugly mess: water like full buckets being thrown at his face; no fire, it goes without saying; critters of any size, any size at all, all hidden somewhere or already accounted for in someone quicker’s belly. As much as he doesn’t want to, Flandre has to admit that Yergh had been right. It was nothing like tracking in the woods. His feet drag in the mud and the journey gets that much slower in the tall grass.

He doesn’t even know what he’s looking for, truth be told. He just somehow hoped that he would finally find the archer, by chance. As it happens when you’re about to leave after a day of hunting without success, and you turn around only to find a perfectly still deer right in the middle of the clearing, almost waiting to be killed, which you gladly do. After all, that was your purpose from the start.

And so, Flandre keeps walking, taking shelter in the odd farmstead - abandoned or otherwise - he can see on the horizon, between an overgrown field and a perfectly kept expanse of coppery barley stalks.

Perfectly aware that it could be weeks, months, years of the same before finding his mark, undaunted and undefeated, Flandre keeps walking, with no other destination than wherever his feet would take him.

It had never been easy to keep his hair or moustache out of his face, but now even the once barely-there sheen of soft golden fur covering his entire body had grown to an unprecedented extent. In such a way that, when he finds it, he looks like a strange, gilded goat, standing upright, back bowed from the effort and brow beaded with sweat.

Before him, in an otherwise unremarkable meadow that shines and sways in the clear day, is a wooden post. Nailed to it, a wooden sign that reads, “YOU FOUND ME”.

Glad but puzzled, Flandre looks around for signs of civilization, but there’s no abode, shed or barn in sight.

THUNK!

Flandre jumps back as an arrow hits the sign in front of him with such force it had almost breached it from side to side. Being quite a good deal taller than the sign, the arrow would’ve hit him in his bits, and that couldn’t possibly have been pleasant.

Inspecting the arrow, with its pristine ivory fletching and a head fashioned in a way he’d never seen before, Flandre notices there’s a slight angle to the entry point of the shaft. Following the imaginary line with his gaze and squinting against the near-midday sun, he notices something dark a few hundred meters in the distance.

As he gets there, he barely has time to read the second sign before another arrow whooshes next to his leg, far, far off to his left.

“WELL DONE”.

Flandre starts getting used to the process as he reaches the third signboard, slightly larger than the previous.

“YOU MUST BE WORTHY, THEN!

COME, I’M WAITING”

More signs follow, the chase continues. Arrows seem to come from all sorts of directions, in a meandering path.

“I’M THE ONE THEY SPEAK OF”

“THE LEGENDARY ARCHER OF THE VALLEY”

“YOU CAN CALL ME LIELIAH”

“ALMOST THERE…”

Until finally, after a little over an hour spent running in circles in the tall grass, Flandre finds himself facing the first sign once again. This time, the arrow faces away, the wooden board clearly flipped to use the opposite side as a canvas, and the paint of the message written on it is still fresh.

“PLEASE KNOCK”

Taken off-guard, Flandre instinctively raps his knuckles against the sign, perking his ears for any sounds of doors opening in the distance. Nothing happens. He shakes his head, feeling dumb, tiredness beginning to settle in his calves, muscles trembling from the strain of traipsing in the knee-high grass.

He knows there are no buildings anywhere on the field, so what could he possibly knock on that isn’t the sign itself? Then, he notices it.

A strange square hole sits in the meadow, a few paces behind the post. Something he’d missed the first time he passed by, so intent on chasing the source of the arrow. A barren patch, which reveals the presence of a trapdoor.

He crouches and knocks.

Suddenly, the hatch bursts open and his ears ring. His vision goes stark white as if he’d been looking at snow and topples on his bottom, bending reeds and weeds with his weight. It feels like something just exploded in his face.

Slowly, the edges in his field of view return to sky blues and verdant cypress, and before him stands what he assumes must be the archer. This… Lieliah.

Short as a fence post, face split in a crooked, shy smile of pointy teeth. Eyes like saucers filled to the brim with spring peas. Her chest keeps rising and falling quickly, as if she’d just run a mile. In one hand she clutches a yew bow, kind of in a bad shape, and in the other, between tiny clawed thumb and forefinger, is a dripping paintbrush.

She giggles and snorts, shaking her hair off her eyes.

“Sorry for the light. It happens when I’m excited. I can’t believe you found me!” she throws bow and brush behind her, sending them into the trapdoor, and quickly scrambles to help Flandre to his feet.

“Woah, you’re really this tall uh? I thought you seemed tall from far away, but in person’s a whole different thing!”

“In- in person?”

“Well, yeah, usually when I take aim it’s like everything gets bigger, like I’m focusing very very hard and the target is all I can see. So I thought that was why you seemed so big! But you really are! Woah, I’m so excited! Pick me up!”

“What?!”

“Pick me up, I say!”

“S-sure!” Flandre can’t find it in himself to deny her request, or order. So he does. He grabs her under the armpits, bunching up her little leather vest, and holds her out in front of himself like she’s a cat.

“Nice! Last time I had such a tall friend was, let’s see… probably Owain’s the only one who didn’t try to kill me.”

“Kill you?”

“Yeah… I’m pretty well hidden. Usually, I only let those who are looking for me find my place, but sometimes a human finds my hut, thinks I’m just any old goblin and tries to kill me.”

“You have a hut? What’s this then?”

“Sure I have a hut! I’m not a savage. This? Oh this is just a hidey-hole I threw together to surprise you. Mission accomplished!”

Lieliah makes Flandre put her down, all the while the poor man stutters questions at her, befuddled by the circumstances.

Grabbing his huge, hairy hand in her tiny, green one, the archer pulls Flandre away to a small hut under a tree, next to a stretch of lavender.

It’s a tight fit inside, but with some care, Flandre manages to perch himself on a chair as Lieliah makes some tea for them.

From the windowsill, the fattest cat Flandre has ever seen is inspecting him with bright green eyes, possibly larger than the goblin’s.

She sits, places two cups on the round, scratched up table, and says, “Usually only the small folk know where I am. They talk a lot, and it’s easier to find the hut in the tall grass when you’re shorter than the weeds. It’s mostly gnomes. They always bring something.”

A spark lights behind her eyes, playful and eager. She needs an offering, a token of Flandre’s friendship, maybe?

He starts rummaging into his backpack, not sure of what he might find. Until he finds something. Forgotten, at the bottom of his bag. Yergh’s tooth he punched out when they first met. It bears some fond significance, and it’s definitely odd enough that it might just do.

Flandre presents the long, yellowish tusk to Lieliah and proclaims, “a brawl broke out in a tavern, and I injured someone - the owner of this here tooth, who would then become my best friend. He said I’d never find you, but here we are. As payback for not believing me, I now offer you his tusk.”

Jubilant, the goblin grabs it, and as she’s looking it over, a faint yellow glow starts emanating from her skin. Just as she screeches with glee, a bright flash paints the interior of the hut of white for a split second, and the fat cat yowls from its post on the windowsill at the sight.

“I didn’t know goblins could do that.”

“Oh, no, they can’t. It’s just me.”

“Mmm,” Flandre hums, curious but sensing it would be a long story.

“So, you came all the way out here, tell me about yourself! Did you hear the legend about me? I should really track down the first guy who came here, it’s thanks to him that rumors have spread about my skills! Impressive, right?”

The two spend the rest of the day and evening crammed into the hut, sipping lukewarm tea, and planning the regime of archery training that will follow in the morning and in the coming days, lulled by the steady, melodious rolling purrs of Nuriel, whom she calls “my angel”.


End file.
